My Step-Daughters Are The Villainesses

Hermione followed Ulrich obediently as he led her toward the dance floor.

She was supposed to walk at his side in a clean line, her posture straight, her hand placed properly, every step perfect the way Elana had drilled into them. Instead, she found herself half a step behind him, her gaze darting everywhere except where it should. She could feel eyes on her from every direction. Nobles, young heirs, women, idle men, far too many people were watching.

This was much more embarrassing than she had imagined.

Practicing inside a room with Elana and her sisters had been one thing. That had been private, safe, almost manageable. This was different. This was a royal hall.

And worst of all, she was dancing with Ulrich of all people.

If anyone had told her, even this morning, that she would end up crossing the floor hand in hand with him while half the court watched, she would have called them insane.

’Why am I panicking?!’

Hermione scolded herself inwardly, almost angrily. Esther had handled it better than she was handling it now, and Esther had been the one crying only minutes ago. Realizing that only made Hermione grit her teeth and force herself to match Ulrich’s pace properly.

By the time they reached the middle of the floor, she noticed people shifting aside for them almost automatically.

It was partly Ulrich. His mere presence changed the space around him. Even among nobles, people adjusted themselves when he approached, often without seeming aware they were doing it. But Hermione knew she contributed to it too. Not because she had done anything, but because her being there with him made the sight stranger, more difficult to ignore.

Then Ulrich turned to face her.

Hermione looked up at him and swallowed.

She had been close to him before, yes, but not like this. Not standing directly in front of him, about to be touched and led through a dance under the eyes of the entire hall. Up close, his size felt even more noticeable. He looked broader, taller, more solid than he ever did from across a room.

When he gave her a look that very clearly asked what exactly she was waiting for, her cheeks flared hot at once.

Quickly, awkwardly, she raised her trembling left hand. Though she was taller than Esther, it still made little difference when standing before Ulrich. Reaching his shoulder properly would have forced her into an angle that looked foolish, so instead she brought her hand toward the same place he had allowed Esther earlier, nearer his side.

Her fingers touched him once.

The contact was enough to make her jerk slightly, as though she had touched something far too warm. His side felt hard beneath the layers of his formal clothes, solid enough that for one absurd second Hermione thought of a wall. She pulled her hand back a fraction, then, realizing how ridiculous that must have looked, forced herself to place it there again and keep it still.

Her whole face had gone pink by then.

Ulrich did not indulge any of Hermione’s visible confusion.

Without comment, he took her other hand into his.

"Hah—um..." was all she managed before giving up entirely.

His grip was strong and warm around her smaller hand, and before she could think too long on that, his other hand settled at her side, just above her waist, secure enough to guide her properly.

Hermione’s body shivered once at the contact.

Not enough to pull away. Not enough for anyone else to notice, probably, but she felt it. She accepted the touch anyway, drawing in a breath she hoped did not sound as trembling as it felt.

Then the music for the next waltz rose.

Ulrich moved.

Hermione let out the tiniest gasp, caught off guard at once by the sensation of being led so completely. Esther had not exaggerated it. Dancing with him was nothing like dancing with Elana or with her sisters. There was no uncertainty in his movements, no small corrections, no adjustment born from equal inexperience. He simply set the direction, and her body had to answer it.

Still, Hermione adapted faster than Esther had.

Within the first few steps, she caught herself, found her balance, and moved with him instead of resisting the lead. But as they settled into the rhythm, a different problem replaced the first.

Her cheeks only grew hotter.

Ulrich had chosen the same slow rhythm he had used with Esther.

For Esther, that had been reassuring.

For Hermione, it was unbearable.

This rhythm was too slow. Too intimate. Each glide felt drawn out, each turn too aware of closeness, of hands, of warmth, of the exact line of his body compared to hers. It made every little thing impossible to ignore.

"I—I prefer a bit faster...!" She blurted out at last, raising her gaze.

Ulrich lowered his eyes to her.

Hermione could only imagine how red her face looked.

He did not bother answering aloud. Instead, he shifted smoothly into the second rhythm, adjusting the pace without disrupting the dance, pulling her along into something quicker and cleaner.

"Hah!" Hermione gasped again, startled by the change.

But she caught on quickly.

She dropped her gaze at once, first to his steps, then to her own, counting the pattern in her head, correcting her footing, matching the quicker sequence until it settled into her body. Once she found it, she realized immediately that yes, this was much better.

Or at least less unbearable.

With the slightly faster rhythm, there was more movement and less time to dwell on every point of contact. Their bodies no longer seemed to linger against the same spaces in the same way. The dance demanded more attention from her, which left less room for humiliation to swell unchecked.

Even so, she remained painfully aware of him.

Of his warmth.

Of the hand holding hers.

Of the hand at her side.

Of the fact that his broad frame seemed to surround hers too easily whenever they turned.

And then another thought struck her so suddenly that she nearly missed a step.

’Why does he smell so good?!’

Hermione almost wanted to die on the spot.

The thought itself made her flush even deeper. It felt improper, ridiculous, and embarrassingly specific, and yet it would not leave. He did smell good. Combined with his size, his broad shoulders, and the way he moved with such calm control, the effect was overwhelming.

She felt swallowed by his presence.

Hermione shut her eyes tightly for a brief second, as if she could crush those dangerous thoughts before they settled any deeper.

Then she shook her head once and raised her gaze again.

"Um... thank you," she muttered. "For what you did for Esther."

Ulrich looked down at her, but instead of answering that, he asked, "How did things go with them?"

Hermione tried to understand who he meant.

The memory of the young nobles returned at once, and her expression darkened.

"Horribly," she said, the answer leaving her with more force than she intended. "They were horrible to us. I do not want to befriend them."

There was strength in her voice now, enough that no one could mistake her meaning. She was not pleading. She was not asking him to excuse her failure to charm them. She was making something clear: if he had brought them here hoping they would cling desperately to noble approval, then he would be disappointed.

But Ulrich gave no sign of displeasure.

In truth, he had already seen enough.

He had wanted the evening to go well for them if possible. He had wanted them to begin building connections, however shallow at first. But insult and humiliation were another matter. Those were not things to be swallowed gratefully simply because they came from nobles.

"Forget them," Ulrich said. "I am asking about Astrid and the princess."

Hermione blinked.

Then she let out the faintest breath of relief.

"Oh... them." She gathered her thoughts quickly. "Astrid feels very aware of her own status. She is arrogant, entitled, and annoying. But she did not directly insult us, so..." Hermione made a face. "I do not know."

That answer did not surprise Ulrich in the slightest.

From what he knew already from the novel, it matched Astrid well enough.

"And the princess?" He asked.

Hermione hesitated.

"She is..." The word caught in her throat for a second, as if admitting it cost her something. Then she forced it out. "Good."

Ulrich’s gaze remained on her.

"Good," he repeated.

And then, without warning, the hand at her waist let go.

For a split second Hermione thought he was releasing her entirely.

Instead, Ulrich shifted their hold with clean precision, lifting her right hand higher in his left and turning her into a spin.

Hermione saw it coming only when it had already begun.

Her breath caught as her body turned, her hand secured in his while the movement carried her through the twirl. For one startling instant, everything seemed to slow. The skirts of her red gown opened in a soft flare around her legs, revealing the layered folds beneath. Her silver hair, so carefully braided, moved with the turn in a shining sweep that caught the light of the chandeliers.

And then it ended.

Ulrich stopped her perfectly.

Not roughly.

His hand steadied her at once, his other hand returning above her waist as though the interruption had been nothing at all, and the dance resumed in the very next beat with the same controlled rhythm as before.

But Hermione’s mind was fuming.

Her entire face flushed so much it felt as though heat had reached her ears, her throat, even the tips of her fingers. Her mind simply blanked for a second under the shock of it. She wanted to protest. She wanted to tell him he should have warned her first. She wanted, at the very least, to glare at him for doing that so suddenly.

Instead she said nothing.

Because the truth was worse.

The lack of warning had made it more powerful, not less.

That one twirl had struck her harder exactly because she had not prepared for it. Her body still felt caught in the memory of the motion, in the power of his hold, in the way he had controlled the entire turn so easily that she had not been allowed even a fraction of disorder.

Her chest had gone tight.

Each beat of her heart landed too hard to ignore.

Ulrich, of course, seemed unaffected.

He just found the good timing to do it, and he knew Hermione would be capable of following it.

He kept leading her as though nothing unusual had occurred.

Hermione could only surrender to it.

There was no point trying to contest his lead, so she let him move her as he wished, following the rhythm, matching the steps, letting her body obey even while her thoughts struggled to recover.

She lowered her gaze and bit lightly at her lip, trying to hide the truth from herself more than from anyone else.

She was happy.

Deeply, embarrassingly happy about this dance.

Not because she enjoyed being watched. Not because the event itself had suddenly become pleasant. And certainly not because she had forgotten the ugliness of the nobles around them.

No.

She was happy because she was dancing with him.

Not with one of those vain, sneering boys from the hall. Not with some smiling fool judging her looks and bloodline at the same time. Not with anyone who had laughed at them or looked at them like something to be sorted and claimed.

With Ulrich.

Even with all his coldness, all his strictness, all the ways he could irritate and annoy her, Hermione could not deny what today had made plain. After everything she had seen, how the young nobles behaved, how the prince behaved, how the men of this kingdom behaved when stripped down to appetite and arrogance, Ulrich stood apart from them in a way none of them could touch.

He was harsh.

He was difficult.

He was often impossible to deal with.

But he was not like them.

That difference mattered more than Hermione wanted it to.

As Ulrich guided her into another turn of the faster rhythm, she kept her eyes lowered, her face still burning, and thought with unwilling certainty that no matter how irritating he was, no matter how stern, cold, or overbearing he could be, from her perspective, Ulrich stood far above the rest of the men in this hall, and likely the whole Kingdom.

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